Calmly to work he went; no word he spoke.
A hideous joy upon his features wrought--
For nature now each shade of anguished woe
Upon the expiring lovely form had taught.
Unceasing worked his hands, above, below;
His heart was to all human feeling dead--
But in the marble * * * life began to show!
Whether in prayer the sufferer bowed his head,
Or in despairing torment gnashed his teeth,
Still on the sculptor's flying fingers sped.
The pale, exhausted victim, nigh to death,
As night the third long day of agony
Is ending, murmurs with his last weak breath,
"My God, my God, hast Thou forsaken me?"
The eyes, half raised, sink down, the writhings cease,
The awful crime has reached its term--and see
There, in its glory, stands a masterpiece!
II
"My God, my God, hast Thou forsaken me?"
At midnight in the minster rang the wail;
Who could have raised it? 'Twas a mystery.
At the high altar, where its radiance pale
A tiny lamp threw out, a form was found
To move, whence came the faltering accents frail.
And then it dashed itself upon the ground,
Its forehead 'gainst the stones, and wildly wept;
The vaulted roof reechoed with the sound.
Long was the vigil that dim figure kept
That seemed by tears so strangely comforted;
None dared its tottering footsteps intercept.
At last the night's mysterious hours were sped
And day returned; but all was silent now,
And with the dawn the ghostly form had fled.
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